


Light(weight)

by meinposhbastard



Series: Being that our case... [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Amused Crowley (until she's not), Domesticity, Drunk!Azira, F/F, Genderbending, Genderswap, Possessive!Crowley, Protective!Crowley, angst (slightly), but fluff overall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azira's book is published. Her editor's assistant, Newton, organises a party for Azira, helped (and spurned) by his editor's fiancée, Madame Tracy.<br/>Needless to say that Azira gets home far from sober.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light(weight)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linnet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnet/gifts).



> So, here you have it. Another instalment written on a whim. And this time I sort of went halfway graphic in the second part.

**1**

_I'm in the middle of a meeting._

\- C.

Azira frowns slightly, her thumbs flying over the keys.

 _But you're texting me._   

\- A.

_Angel._

\- C.

Azira can practically hear the stress over her most used pet name. At times it can transmit both annoyance and desperation. She finds it ridiculous how she can pick up on the annoyance bit so well from a neutral text. She sighs, a pang of guilt for troubling her girlfriend at such a delicate time, stirring the metaphorical butterflies in her stomach.

But Crowley didn’t shut her off, so she must be interested in what Azira has to say. Either this or the meeting bores her out of her mind.

_Madame Tracy called me minutes ago_

_to tell me they're throwing a party this_

_evening and that I'm not allowed to_

_skip it. I was thinking that maybe_

_you could come with... ?_

\- A.

Azira's fingers hover over the keys, unsure what to do now. She's still not sure how Crowley will respond to her text. It's not that Crowley doesn't like to go to parties. She usually sees them as more of a hassle and always skips them (unless her boss, Azrael, explicitly tells her to attend), but until this point in time, Azira never asked her to go to one together. Well, thinking about it, it's not like Azira's had an overflowing income of invitations to parties. Actually, none of that sort. Until today, that is.

She can safely say it's Madame Tracy's fault. She found Azira's latest book so inspiring and wonderful that she organised this party to show her how much the older lady appreciates her book. She couldn't refuse. It's a party in her own name, but she's not really party material either. She'd much rather stay inside the flat and read with a cup of gloriously warm Ceylon in one hand, than to summon every ounce of energy in her body to plaster a smile on her face and be social with everybody.

She's an introverted like that. Long intervals of exposure to people finishes by making her jittery and skittish. Crowley found it adorable and endearing, although Azira couldn't fathom why, and she was more than happy to spend the time with her girlfriend rather than wasting it with other 'suits' she neither knew well nor had a high regard for.

_What’s the occasion?_

\- C.

_My latest book. It seems to_

_have wormed its way into_

_Madam Tracy’s top ten._

\- A.

_Mmm, we should celebrate._

\- C

Something about that answer makes Azira shift on the sofa. The words have nothing special, but she can’t help but read them in that sultry, promising tone of her lover, and no. Not now. She needs to be focused. Focused.

_Does that mean you’ll come?_

\- A.

_Sorry, 'Zira. I won't be able to leave_

_early. These bloody pig-heads are_

_asking for more than they can chew._

\- C.

Azira slumps back on the sofa, phone falling on her stomach as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She'll be forced to get up, don her clothes, put some make-up on along with a feasible mask of social Azira without Crowley to offer protection and haven, won't she?

Another sigh.

Yeah, okay, she'll do it.

In a minute.

-o-

The door slams shut more or less twenty minutes past 11 pm, a disgruntled and royally pissed off Crowley marching into the bedroom with the kind of expression that promises hellish torture. And Azira is out at a bloody party, so no ear to which to complain about the impossible stupidity that her company seems to be plagued by.

She's seriously thinking about taking that long vacation she's never had in over two years. But the dread that her so-called colleagues might bring the company on the brink of the bankruptcy is keeping her from taking the last step. Well, not that Azrael would ever allow such thing to happen, but still.

She discards every piece of clothing, minus her black-laced knickers and bra. On her way to the kitchen she picks up her crimson robe, but she doesn’t fasten the slim, silken belt.

A smile clears the dark clouds from her expression as her eyes fall on the yellow note, held in place on the fridge by a miniature Pisa Tower. Her fingers trail over the slanted, cursive flow of her girlfriend's words.

_I made chicken salad before going out. Hopefully you didn't arrive late!_

_And I hope I'll be able to sneak out before my social reserves run out!_

_See you at home and bon appétite, my dear!_

Crowley snorts half-heartedly and is about to roll her eyes fondly, when she realises the lower edge of the yellow note is folded up, as if hiding something from prying eyes. When she pushes down the upturned edge, Crowley giggles. She can't help it. Leave it to her girlfriend to become prudish even after all these years of cohabiting.

 _P.S. I love you!_ , is written at the end of the note and Crowley can picture her lover biting her lower lip as she forms each curved letter on the paper. Crowley’s forehead touches it, still smiling. She probably doesn't tell Azira enough how much Crowley's glad to have her. She forces undesirable scenarios from her mind. Azira is hers, and nothing short of a miracle will ever be able to make Crowley give her up.

She wants the bundle of introverted, prudish, awkward girl she met in that old bookshop. She truly wants all of her and then some more.

Sighing contentedly, she leans up and opens the fridge to inspect her dinner for that night. Surprisingly, it still looks freshly made, but maybe that's because Azira made sure to cover the bowl with the transparent foil well enough that no air could enter or get out.

Just as she's putting the empty bowl in the sink, twenty minutes later (she took her time savouring it), three rapid knocks breaks the relative silence of the flat. She gazes at the watch: two minutes past midnight. She frowns. Azira has the key to the flat. She would surely not bother knocking.

Slightly confused and curious, she opens the door. She is not prepared for what awaits her.

It is her girlfriend - that's the first thing she takes in -, but she's not alone and on top of that she doesn't look good either. Half draped on the gangly guy who seems to have a bit of difficulty sustaining both their balance, Azira's eyes are unfocused, glazed over, mouth slack and cheeks flushed.

"Um, she - she's fine." Something in Crowley's expression must have pushed the man to assure Crowley of her girlfriend's safety.

Crowley narrows her eyes at him as she takes a step forward to pull Azira into her arms. She's pliant to the point where she goes without as much as look over who took her.

"Mm, soft," Crowley hears her girlfriend slur, head tucked on her shoulder. "Crowley." She nuzzles into Crowley's neck, giggling uncontrollably for some reason.

"How many did she have?" Crowley asks, voice perfectly neutral, although her eyes are alight with fire, the same that never stopped boring holes into the poor man's head.

He shifts from one foot to the other, gaze skittering around as if he's not sure if it's wise for him to tell her the truth. Crowley narrows her eyes further, daring him to lie to her.

"Three flutes of champagne," he says, swallowing; Crowley lifts a perfectly manicured eyebrow, reading on his face that there's more. In fact, it's true. He heaves a defeated sigh as Crowley stops one of Azira's hands from its spontaneous exploration. "That's before engaging into a game of tequila shots," he swallows again, eyes darting up to meet Crowley's for a split second, "with Scarlett."

Crowley closes her eyes. "Fuck." She's not so eloquent with the expletives (outside the bedroom, obviously), but this situation warrants some good, old slur.

Azira shifts against her, a groan escaping her lips that doesn't bode well.

"... don't feel good," she mumbles and Crowley's internal alarms are on full blast.

She helps her girlfriend inside without sparing another glance into the man's direction, effectively closing the door in his face. Rude, but it's not like she's ever cared much about manners, except the strictly necessary ones. Besides, everyone with eyes can see she has her hands full with a drunk writer, not to dwell on what other parts of her will be full with if they don't get to the bathroom.

As she pushes Azira to sit down on the toilet's closed lid, she shrugs off her robe.

"We need to take off your clothes, 'Zira," Crowley tells her as she unbuttons the pristine white shirt. The task would be much more easy if her lover's hands wouldn't wander on their own accord over every inch of naked skin Crowley has on display. "Damn it, 'Zira, stay still!" she orders, but her girlfriend seems lost in a world of her own.

"So gorgeous," Azira whispers, reverence in her eyes as she roams over Crowley's body.

Crowley changes tactics. She crouches down, capturing both her girlfriend's hands into her own and looking up at her.

"Azira, focus!" She urges her. "I have to take off your clothes and then we'll get you into the shower. Okay?"

Azira keeps swaying from one side to the other, cheeks still flushed and eyes glazed, but she manages to nod.

"Good," Crowley says more to herself, and gets the rest of Azira's clothes out of the way with less interruptions.

Now the second step: get her sweet, drunk writer into the shower. It shouldn't be such a difficult task. Their destination is three simple steps away. However, even those meagre steps become a hell of a lot more complicated when you have five foot of uncoordinated limbs to direct. And Azira is not helping one bit, her forehead pressed to the side of Crowley's head whispering gibberish like, "you're gorgeous" or "you smell so nice" or the most ridiculous thing Crowley's ever heard from her girlfriend, "you're an angel sent to protect me, aren't you?". As if Crowley could ever be identified with an angel.

She purposefully ignores every single one of Azira's comments, finally managing to get her under the shower. She doesn't warn her before turning on the faucet.

Azira screams as soon as the cold water hits her feverish skin, making her bolt away from the spritz and towards Crowley, who stops her from getting out of the shower.

"Crowley, it's cold!" Azira says, voice pitched high with desperation; pleading eyes finally focus on Crowley's. "Please let me out. It's cold!"

"No, 'Zira. I can't do that," she tells her, shaking her head a bit to add credibility to her words.

Azira looks at her, terrorised, and Crowley doesn't break the eye contact. That look on her lover's face doesn't sit well with her, though; it makes Crowley feel guilty for putting her through this (something she's still not used to feel, but when it comes down to Azira, Crowley finds herself experiencing an array of emotions she never thought she was capable of), but both of them need to bear with it for another minute or two.

When Azira visibly shakes, arms crossed over her slender body into a protective embrace, Crowley decides they've been torturing themselves for enough time. She steps away and picks up the fluffiest, oversized towel they have in their bathroom closet. It was a present from her to Azira, but she doesn't remember on which occasion or how long ago. She spoils her like that. Unannounced presents on random days. Crowley's never been a traditionalist, so whenever she saw something that reminded him of Azira, she bought it without batting an eyelid.

She envelops her angel into it, pulling her into her arms.

"I'm sorry," Crowley mutters against the fluffy surface of Azira's shoulder, "I had to do it."

Azira doesn't say anything, still shaking into Crowley's arms. They stay like that for a good while, Crowley feeling reluctant to let her girlfriend go. But at some point or another they'll have to get to bed. It's what? One in the morning?

"I'll bring you a glass of water." Crowley gently pushes Azira away to look her in the eye; she doesn't meet Crowley's intense gaze, and Crowley realises with some regret that the flush in her cheeks is completely gone, leaving behind paper-white skin; she likes it when Azira has colour in her cheeks, especially when it's Crowley who put it there. "Can you put on your pyjamas?"

Azira just nods, still not looking at her lover. Crowley sighs softly, but decides to follow through with her promise.

When she enters the bedroom, Azira is already in bed, covers bundled up into a lump on the right side. Crowley smiles a little as she approaches.

"Hey, gorgeous," she calls softly, leaving the glass on the nightstand, "your water's here. Come out."

The lump shifts a bit and a groan filters out. Crowley chuckles fondly. She coaxes the covers from under Azira's head with ease and she smiles at the disgruntled look on her girlfriend's face.

"Here," she helps her sit up and then places the glass into her hand; her fingers are cool to Crowley's warm touch. With Azira it's always either cold limbs or hot body and cranky mood, which usually happens in the summer. Not that London summers are scorching, but the past two haven't been cool either.

"So, do you want to explain what happened at the party and why was there a need for you to be escorted home by a gangly man?"

Colour blooms beautifully on Azira's cheeks and Crowley's one part relieved and three parts amused. No time like the present to tease one's beloved.

“That’s Newton,” Azira replies, chancing a glance towards her lover; she finds only patience and amusement on Crowley's face, so Azira relaxes a fraction. “Mr Shadwell’s assistant. He helped me craft the book into a readable--” she stops mid-sentence, sensing Crowley’s knowing look.

She’s not really trying to avoid her question, but for some reasons she needed to explain to Crowley who the young man was.

"Right.Um... I - I don't remember much," Azira admits, avoiding looking Crowley straight in the eye. "I remember that I got there and started feeling overwhelmed by all those people. Madame Tracy said it was just a small gather of people I knew from the publishing company." Azira's expression sours. "I should have know that with her the parties are never small. At least nothing less than thirty people."

"Ouch," Crowley says in sympathy, knowing all too well how Azira becomes jittery even in the presence of their closest friends, which she can count on one hand.

Azira nods and smiles wearily. "As soon as I realised what I was walking in, I thought I'd either bolt out or get wasted."

"The second option seems to have won," Crowley says, but there's no anger in her voice; if nothing else, she is amused by this situation.

Azira blushes. "Y-yeah. I mean, there was a lady with a tray of flutes passing by, so I grabbed one and downed it without thinking. Then I thought that alcohol will help my frayed nerves settle down."

"And then you got truly wasted at the hands of Scarlett." At the name, Azira visibly tenses. Crowley frowns. "Is there something I should know?"

"No." It's no more than a whisper and Crowley is sorely unconvinced.

She gently lifts Azira's chin, so they're a few inches apart and there’s no other option but to make eye contact. "Tell me." It's not a command, but a softly spoken invitation to share with her whatever bothers her girlfriend.

Azira bites her lip, looking torn between a truth and a lie - or pushing the matter away completely. For a second, Crowley thinks Azira will kiss her to make her forget about this conversation, but Azira stays put.

"I... I was three flutes down when she came to talk to me. She was already drunk, but I tried to be polite and... " She averts her eyes and Crowley has a bad feeling about where this is going. "She challenged me to a game of tequila shots, saying I couldn't hold my liquor down, and it was true. I know it better than anyone." At which Crowley lifts an eyebrow, but doesn't interrupt her; she's not finished. "I didn't agree at first, of course. I was barely able to make small talk with the people I knew after three flutes of champagne. I knew taking her on would be a recipe for disaster."

She pauses. For a long time. Crowley stays still, breathing evenly and watching Azira attentively. She feels there's more, but Azira doesn't seem to bring her wits about and tell the rest.

"What changed your mind?" Crowley asks, unable to stand the silence anymore.

Azira sighs, looking sideways. "She then tells me that she's not so sure I'm good enough for you, that I should get out more and that I shouldn't hole myself up in our flat." Her lower lip trembles minutely before uttering the next words, starting slow but speeding up quickly enough. "She said that you must be embarrassed to be seen with me in public, and that’s why I don’t get out much. I know it's not true, but I was already tipsy and I didn't want to hear her continue talking bad about you, so I agreed to her stupid game and then... then I don't know how I ended up here."

When Azira finally dares to look at Crowley, she’s greeted with a thunderous expression. "She's a dead person," Crowley states in her icy, detached tone she uses before completely destroying the prosecution.

"No!" Alarm spills into Azira's features. "No, Crowley, you don't need to. There's no need. She was clearly drunk and didn't know what she was saying. If there's anybody to blame that's--"

" _Do not_ end that sentence, Azira," Crowley warns, all the venom suddenly directed straight at her; Azira's heart stutters at the sight, suddenly terrified and very awake.

She lowers her gaze, Crowley's fingers still keeping her chin high.

"Shit," hisses Crowley when she realises what she's done to Azira; she quickly gathers her into her arms, pressing her tightly against her chest. "I'm so sorry, 'Zira. I shouldn't have... I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry."

Azira just nods, accepting her girlfriend's apology wholeheartedly, arms wounding around Crowley's back, careful to keep the glass of water several inches away from them so as not to spill it.

"But I'm not forgiving her for what she's said to you. Drunk or not drunk," Crowley tells her.

Azira sighs. She didn't really expect her to let it go. Crowley is nothing if not thorough.

"I'm sorry for getting drunk," Azira says quietly.

Crowley hums in response. She releases her lover and gestures towards the glass, which makes Azira blush for some reason. She downs half of it in one go and then places it on the night stand.

"Better get to bed." Crowley kisses her softly on the lips and goes on the other side (her side) of the bed, rearranging the covers so that Crowley has half of it to herself.

Azira scuttles towards her girlfriend, burying her face in the space where neck meets shoulder. She relishes the arm on her middle that pulls her closer still, tangling their legs until there's barely a part of her body that's not glued to Crowley.

"'Night, angel," Crowley whispers into her crown of blonde hair.

"Good night, Crowley," Azira answers softly, breath ghosting over her neck as lips brush over it. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

-0-

Crowley growls into her pillow. Blearily, she dares to look at her phone to check the hour, but before that she's blinded by the unbearably bright light; it's completely dark in their bedroom.

"It's three o-fucking-clock in the morning, 'Zira!” she grumbles, miffed. “I've barely slept two hours!"

After their not-so-light conversation, Crowley fell asleep within the first five minutes of lying her head on the pillow. She's been jostle half awake by Azira squirming and then rolling out of her arms at one point. She probably mumbled something, but she doesn't remember, because she most probably went back to sleep.

But Azira is tossing and turning, making quite the noise in an otherwise silent room, and Crowley has never regretted being a light sleeper more than right now.

A muffled giggle catches her attention and she turns towards Azira, squinting in the dark.

"Are you still drunk?" she asks incredulously.

Azira giggles again, but this time is unrestrained. "I think the appropriate word in this case is tipsy." Another bout of giggles, as if she finds the word funny.

"Did you actually sleep until now?"

"No," she answers, managing to not giggle -- much. "I tried, but I kept being distracted by your breath on my ear. Ticklish." She giggles this time.

"Oh God," Crowley whispers, exasperated. "I swear you're not allowed to go to parties ever again!"

"Aww," Azira says, and it actually sounds like she's genuinely sad. "But I had fun. In a twisted way. She passed out after four shots." She giggles.

Crowley passes one hand over her face, giving up. "I bet you didn't stop there."

"'Course not. All that tequila was going to waste." More giggles. "Madame Tracy even helped me finish the last shots. Sweet lady, although she can talk your head off. She's usually chatty in her sober state, as opposed to Mr Shadwell who grunts and speaks in a language of his own, but I thought that maybe the alcohol would have another effect on her. Instead she became even more talkative than the usual." She shifts, giggling.

"Are you going to talk my head off, too?" Crowley asks tiredly.

Azira laughs. "No, my dear, I won't. You can go back to sleep."

Crowley looks in Azira's direction. She can only make a vague shadowy form an arm’s length away from her, but nothing else. Azira is silent. Maybe she has fallen asleep in the meantime. She wouldn't know. It's not like Azira has a habit of getting drunk. Actually, this is the first experience Crowley has with a drunk Azira. Maybe she'll try it again. Sometime. Within the walls of their flat, that is. It should be a nice experiment, one that could involve other, more physical...

"It's so dark in here, I can't see the stars," Azira speaks up, shifting again. "Pull back the curtains, Crowley. I wanna see the stars."

Crowley closes her eyes. Of course she's not asleep.

"We're in a flat. In Soho. Which happens to be in London," Crowley mutters slightly annoyed. "Even if I did that, you wouldn't be able to spot any dots with all the light pollution we're surrounded by."

Azira giggles. "Boobs are so uncomfortable to sleep in," she says and Crowley’s attention perks up, the non sequitur rather interesting. "I mean, it's not comfortable to sleep in a bar either, but without it's like," she breaks off into a fit of giggles, "it's like they're an old married couple, bickering whenever they meet. Punching each other if they can." She laughs heartily at this.

Crowley frowns at the nonsense her lover is sprouting, but then she realises her lips are stretched into a smile and yeah, no. She wasn't even aware of that. Leave it to her brilliant, prudish and totally mesmerising angel to make her smile without her even realising it.

"C'mere, angel," Crowley tells her, extending an arm and grabbing the first thing that belongs to Azira, which is a part of her pyjamas; probably along her arm. "I'll help you with that problem."

"You will?" she asks, fake suspicion spilling into her words, but goes willingly towards Crowley.

"Yes," Crowley answers readily, trapping her into her arms once again.

"Mmm," Azira hums against Crowley's neck. "Can we break the Red and have glorious, drunk sex?" she suggests and Crowley has to take a deep breath to push back the already surging 'yes' on her tongue.

"No, not when you're like this."

"Oh, come on! You're unfair!" Azira protests. "And I'm fine."

"Yeah, like England's economy's fine," Crowley replies sarcastically, but doesn't continue. Instead she tightens her hold on Azira, kissing her cheek, since it's closer. "But we won't let your suggestion go to waste."

"Really?" Azira perks up, trying to find Crowley's eyes and failing for obvious reasons.

"Yes, but it won't happen anytime soon either."

Azira pouts. Crowley can actually feel it against her neck. "You're such a tease."

Crowley smirks. "You wouldn't love me if I wasn't."

Azira punches her lightly in the arm and Crowley laughs good-naturedly. It takes more than ten minutes to fall asleep, but this time it happens. To both of them.

**2**

The smell of toasted bread rouses her from her sleep. Groggily, she makes her way into the living room, an awful headache pounding in her head every time she takes a step.

“What time is it?” Azira asks as she enters the kitchen, rubbing the sleep away from her eyes.

An amused smirk greets her as she focuses on her lover.

“Ten past nine.”

Surprise fills Azira’s features. “Ten past… but didn’t you have work today? Weren’t you supposed to…”

A piece of toasted bread muffles the rest of the sentence, followed by a peck on the nose from Crowley. She’s oddly cheery this morning, Azira realises. She chews on the bread slowly, trying to contemplate the situation but the headache is having a fit. She groans, going over to the kitchen island and sitting on a high stool. The morning light is still stupidly bright.

Why is it that London gets a sunny day the morning after she makes a bad decision? Seriously. She’s learnt her lesson now, okay? Now put the light away before her eyes burn out of their sockets.

“I called in sick,” Crowley sing-songs (and isn’t it ominously so unlike her lover).

Azira squints at her from behind her fingers. A plate of toasted bread, a fried egg and a tuna and mayonnaise salad is already placed in front of her.

“You’re awfully chipper this morning, my dear,” Azira says slowly, suspiciously. “I don’t think it’s because you took a day off, is it?”

“Oh don’t sweat it, angel,” Crowley grins genially; it doesn’t ease Azira one bit. “We haven’t had a sunny day like this since forever and I decided to pamper my lover. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Well, that’s very unlike you, my dear,” Azira comments, inspecting the contents of her plate. “Not the pampering bit, I mean,” she quickly rectifies.

“How so?” She asks as she digs into her meal.

“This feels like you’re rewarding me for getting drunk last night.”

Crowley grins toothily as she chews, but doesn’t say anything. Azira decides to leave the matter be for the time being; her headache won’t subside if she doesn’t stop thinking more than immediate commands. Still, the jarring feeling that Crowley’s not telling something doesn’t ceases.

“When did you wake up?” Azira asks conversationally, trying to forget about her pulsing pain.

“Mm, at about seven o’clock,” Crowley answers neutrally.

“That’s early. Why didn’t you wake me up? I could have helped you…” but she trails off when Crowley gives her a look.

She gives up on what she was about to say and they return to their food, eating in silence for a while.

“I’m impressed you didn’t threw up last night. Or this morning,” Crowley tells her.

“Oh. I suppose I have a tough stomach,” Azira smiles somehow shyly.

Crowley chuckles, then, “but you didn’t escape the headache, right?”

Azira stops mid-chewing. She swallows. “Yes, I suppose.”

Crowley is the first one to finish off her breakfast. She disappears into the bedroom for a couple of minutes, but just as Azira places her plate into the sink, Crowley emerges with a smirk. She takes a glass from one of the upper cupboards and fills it with water, then motion for Azira to open up her hand, palm up, which she does.

She places a pill and then hands her the water. Azira looks confused at the tiny item on her palm, and Crowley huffs a bit of air.

“For your headache, ‘Zira,” she tells her, fondly exasperated and Azira’s cheeks colour slightly.

She downs half of the glass, washing the pill and every remnants of her breakfast.

As soon as Azira places the glass back on the counter, she finds her arms full of a warm body. Her surprised squeal is swallowed up by Crowley’s mouth, as she diligently backs Azira to the counter. The kiss turns feverish in no time, both of them somehow starving for this kind of touch.

“How much do you remember from last night?” Crowley asks between placing kisses along Azira’s jaw and then neck. A swipe of tongue just behind her ear has Azira suck in a deep breath, eyes closing at the intense sensation. Crowley knows her every sensitive spot.

Or rather, she’s good at _creating_ new sensitive spots.

“I-I don’t…” she freezes mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sudden influx of memories. “Oh _God_! Tell me I didn’t actually say that about my… um…” She fidgets, though part of it is Crowley’s doing. That expert tongue is such a tease.

“Your what, angel,” she asks, and those simple words sound so filthy to Azira’s ears that she can’t suppress a low moan from escaping.

“My breasts,” Azira whispers and Crowley sucks a mark at the base of her neck, as if in response to her lover’s answer.

At the same time, one of her hands sneak beneath Azira’s shirt, caressing the skin she finds in her wake, until she pinches one of her nipples. Azira squirms and whimpers at the dual sensation Crowley elicits.

“You did,” Crowley answers in lieu to Azira’s previous comment. “You also suggested we have drunk sex.” She smiles at her lover’s sudden intake of air. “I must say, I was half compelled to do just that. You’re very convincing when you’re tipsy.”

Azira never had much control over her body, especially not when Crowley was in close proximity to her. It was a disaster in the past, always fidgety, always seemingly making a fool of herself whenever Crowley flashed one of her smirks. But she got better at it. It didn’t completely disappear. She still feels the butterflies in her stomach whenever Crowley’s near, but she learnt to live with them.

However, every ounce of self control flies off the proverbial window when Crowley’s sole mission is to reduce her to a quivering mess. Like right now.

“B-but?” she asks, just as Crowley mouths at her collarbone, intent on following the the dipping line of her shirt -- and then some more.

“Hmm?”

“It… it sounded l-like there w-was more,” she stutters her way through her answer.

“Oh,” Crowley says, and then her hands retreat from the places they were teasing, eliciting a whimper in protest from Azira, but before she finishes, Crowley hands hook up under her thighs pushing her up on the counter.

In her surprise, Azira linked her hands behind Crowley’s neck, legs following suit behind her back. Crowley smirks smugly up at her, but she doesn’t get to say anything in edgewise, because Crowley captures her mouth once again.

They work themselves up, Crowley biting Azira’s lower lip every now and again, Azira tightening her grip in Crowley’s hair every time that happens, Crowley’s hands sneaking into Azira’s pyjama pants and kneading her arse encouragingly and in general having a steamy hot make out session on their kitchen’s counter.

“I’d like it me to be the one you’re losing a drinking game to,” she tells Azira, eyes boring into hers.

Azira’s brains screech to a halt just as the doorbell rings. But it’s in the distance, her entire being imprisoned in her lover’s gaze. Her scattered brains try to decipher what Crowley is actually trying to say with that, but she’s already moving away, smirking.

Belatedly, she realises they apparently have an unannounced guest and she scrambles off the counter, donning her clothes and hair to the best of her abilities just in time.

A red-headed woman, with tresses falling to her waist saunters into the kitchen and Azira is reminded instantly about the tequila shots and subsequently of the conversation it preceded. The rising of tension in her shoulders kills off every remnant of lust she was infused with.

She doesn’t notice Crowley leaning casually against the door frame, arms crossed loosely over her breasts. She doesn’t see the receding lust from eyes either; how her gaze turns sharp and focused on her lover.

The beautiful woman, because Azira acknowledges qualities even if she doesn’t want to, either has a sense of commanding the room engraved into her brain or she just seeks the comfort of a chair rather desperately. Looking closely at her, now that she settled down, Azira is more inclined towards the latter rather than the former.

Scarlett (oh, will you look at that, her fussy memory returns in increments, she thinks wrily) looks like a ghost of the lively person she somehow remembers from the party. Her face is drained of colour and prominent shadows lurk beneath her strikingly unusual light brown eyes. At the right angle, they’re orange. She’s intrigued by this particular aspect, but quickly bats the thought away when Scarlett’s eyes land on her.

It’s not the “a cursory glance” type, no. This is her, giving Azira her undivided attention, which brings about another stutter in her thought process. Her headache peeks again. Oh God!

“I came here to apologise for my behaviour last night,” she says, her words coming out somehow awkwardly, as if she’s not used to apologise for anything she does.

Azira blinks, caught off-guard. A pregnant pause tumbles in the room.

“I’m sorry?”

Scarlett scoffs. She turns her attention towards Crowley. “Can we do this another time? I’m still hungover and I have a pounding headache.”

It takes only a narrow of Crowley’s eyes to make the beautiful woman sigh in defeat.

“Look, I didn’t mean all that I’ve said last night,” she tries again, this time sounding like she genuinely means what she says. “I was five minutes from passing out and I only wanted an idiot--” A beep cuts her off immediately and when Azira looks at the source of it, somehow reluctantly, she finds Crowley with her thumb threateningly hovering over her phone. Scarlett’s swallow resounds in the silence.

“I wanted someone who I could fool into taking me up with the game. All the others brushed me off and I was kind of pissed at them, and then there you were, awkwardly attempting at blending in and I said to myself, ‘why the hell not?’, and the rest you know,” she fires off desperately. “But I swear I didn’t mean anything I said. It was just a trick to get you to accept my challenge. And you did.”

Azira is stunned. Or maybe the right word is overwhelmed. What is she supposed to do in this situation? She has no idea, so she dumbly stares at the red-head, her mind completely blank.

“Alright,” Crowley breaks the silence, stepping into the room. “I recall you said you had some other place you had to be,” she says, gesturing for her to get her pretty arse up off the stool and get going.

“Does -- does that mean that we’re good?” she asks as she follows Crowley’s silent order unconsciously.

“We’ll see.”

They move into the small foyer.

“But you said…”

“I said I’ll _think_ about not sending that information to whomever I know might impact your not-so-nice job.” Crowley crosses her arms again, her stony expression daring Scarlett to argue with that.

She actually opens her mouth to say something more, but wisely shuts it up when Crowley’s entire body language warns her to stay put. She sighs defeated.

“Just… take care with that information,” she tells her resigned. “It’s my life you’re holding in your hands.”

Crowley smirks sharply. “Let’s not get over dramatic, shall we?”

The front door shutting with a sharp thud breaks the bubble Azira seems to have plunged into. She hurries to confront her lover, just as Crowley enters the kitchen.

“What was that? Why was Scarlett in our kitchen?” she asks, rather frantically.

Crowley chuckles, placing her hands on Azira’s hips to steady her energetic flailing.

“Calm down, angel,” she tells her, pulling Azira into her arms as she resumes her pilgrimage down her neck. “She _graced_ us with her presence because she remembered how much of a twat she’s been at the party.” There’s so much sarcasm Azira is picking up just from that sentence that she doesn’t know what to do with it.

That and the fact that Crowley’s ministration encourage her insatiable libido to wake up once again. She doesn’t even find the time or energy to get frustrated with her lover for using sex to divert her attention from the topic at hand.

“Common sense dictates that this is the wise thing to do if you don’t want karma to turn into a bitch.” Crowley smiles before nipping just under Azira’s jaw; the appreciative little moan in response to her action doesn’t go unnoticed. “Not that she ever possessed such a thing as common sense, mind. But sudden change of heart happen to people when you push the right buttons.” She grins into her lover’s milky soft shoulder, before sucking a mark there too.

“Mm, Crowley you’re unfair!” she argues, and she might have been embarrassed at the whiny tone she talks with, if she weren’t so thoroughly distracted by her lover’s wandering hands and expert tongue.

“How so?” Crowley asks innocently, but the smug grin bleeds into her words.

“You.. you.. _ah God_ ,” she swears when Crowley, the sneaky minx she is, bends her knee between Azira’s legs and strokes her ever so lightly. She’s reduced to incoherent noises for a minute or two, Crowley relishing every single second.

She’s not as unaffected as she looks like, either. Her pupils are blown, gaze lustful and she can’t seem to stop stroking Azira, almost getting off on her every whimper or moan. The debauched look on her lover, how both her hands grip her hair spasmodically -- it’s too much for Crowley.

“ _Fuck_ , ‘Zira, the look on you,” she growls into Azira’s skin, backing her up against the nearest wall. Her knee is damp from the precome that leaks from Azira and it’s all the more incentive to climax then and there, Crowley’s knickers already wet from her own precome.

She doesn’t. Her self-control is still more or less in place, so she pushes her edging orgasm back, desperate to take her lover over the edge, because this beautiful woman is hers and nothing is more satisfying than seeing her climax in her own pants.

“ _Oh God_ , Crowley, don't stop, please!” Azira whispers frantically, eyes closed and mouth ajar. “Crowley, I’m close. Oh sweet... I’m so… so… “

It takes Crowley’s quick change from knee to her own fingers, pushing two at a time through the fabric of her pants inside her, to have her lover lose herself into her blinding orgasm.

She sags against the wall, supported by Crowley’s body, both breathing hard. Azira still hasn’t opened her eyes, enjoying the afterglow of the orgasm.

“Worked like a charm,” Azira finds herself saying, a lazy smile stretching her lips. “Completely obliterated my headache.”

Crowley giggles into her shoulder, accompanied soon by Azira.

They disentangle after a couple more minutes, Azira pulling a face at the sticky mess between her legs.

“Shower,” Azira says, sighing like a sated cat.

Crowley grins. “This time hot.”

“With a bonus,” she adds sultrily, drunk on her orgasm, as she steps into Crowley’s personal space and presses two fingers at the dampness between her legs. Crowley stops a pathetic whimper from completely forming, but this up close, there’s no chance in hell Azira missed.

And she didn’t, the teasing smirk she so rarely shows, blossoming on her lips saying so much.

“That drunk sex is happening sooner rather than later,” Crowley promises, voice husky with lust as she follows her lover towards the bathroom, anticipating the mindblowing orgasm she’ll have in the shower.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Your birthday present is making babies, R! hahahaha
> 
> P.P.S I did my best to hunt down all the 'he' instead of 'she' pronouns throughout the text (it took me a bit of time to get used to the 'she' pronoun, the sudden change showing), but I'm not infallible. So if you spot any, please point them out and I'll come back and change it ^^


End file.
